Cemetery Girl

“But I was just trying to give voice to what you were already thinking.” She cleared her throat. “You’re here because you want to know something about yourself. You feel guilty. And you want to know if it makes you a bad father to allow yourself to think the worst. It’s not an unusual response. I worked with a woman a few years back. Her sixteen-year-old son had been killed in a car accident. Sixteen. About a year after the accident she decided to give his clothes to Goodwill. She felt so guilty and like such a bad mother, she practically collapsed. She went to bed for a week. I had to go and talk to her in her bedroom. Do you see how this can affect people?”

“I guess you’re right.” My voice sounded thin and distant even to my own ears.

“Why would you think she’s dead?”

I felt small in the chair, like a child. “It’s been four years. With no real advances in the case. Even the recent events, this man-”

“This is the man from the strip club? The one in the sketch in the paper?”

“Yes.”

“The man who Tracy saw.”

“Has she talked to you about him?” I asked. “Has she said anything about this man?”

She didn’t answer.

“You can’t say,” I said. “Or you won’t say. Which is it?”

“If one of your students came to you and asked about another student’s grade, what would you say?”

“I get it,” I said.

“Let me ask you this-why would it be such a problem to admit that your daughter is in all likelihood dead?”

“I’m not supposed to. I have to believe she’s not gone.”

“Why?”

“I’m her father.” It was the best and simplest answer I could summon.

“But you don’t really seem to believe this. I can tell. You’re full of doubt. And that’s why you’re here, right? That’s why you’re talking to a complete stranger after all this time, when I know you’ve had plenty of opportunities to talk to shrinks and social workers. You’re here because you’ve been playing the big, strong man all this time, and now the doubts are starting to win. Right?”

“I thought you didn’t offer opinions or judgment unless asked?”

“You seem like you can handle it,” she said. “So, am I right?”

My throat felt constricted and phlegmy. “When I look around, I see that everyone else is moving on, has moved on, and maybe I should do the same.”

“Maybe?”

“I should move on,” I said.

“But why? Why now? What’s changed?”

I reached into my own coat pocket and brought out a ziplock bag. I handed it across the table. Susan took it, examined it, and then looked at me.

“A wilted flower,” she said.

“Before I came over here today, I went into Caitlin’s room. I do that from time to time.”

“Is it still her room?” Susan asked. “Have you changed it?”

I shook my head. “It’s exactly the same.”

“Ah,” she said as though my answer meant something. But she didn’t explain.

“She wore that coat to the park in the days before she disappeared. Then the day she disappeared she wore a different coat. I think the man who took her-the man in that drawing-gave her the flower. It was right before Valentine’s Day.”

“Hmm.” Susan held the bag in her hands, turned it over, and looked at it from all sides. Her nails were short and unpainted. She seemed to be taking the flower very seriously. “Maybe she picked it up off the ground. Or took it from the cemetery, off of a grave. Or a school friend gave it to her. There are other possibilities.”

“Why would she keep it in her coat if that was the case? It’s like she was hiding it.”

Susan shrugged. “I think you should share this with the police. It’s over my head, to be honest. But if it’s evidence, if it’s important, they should see it.” She handed the bag back.

I took it and held it in my hand for a long moment. I couldn’t imagine giving it away to the police. It was foolish, I knew, but it seemed like a strong link to Caitlin, and I couldn’t just give it away.

“It’s like an artifact, isn’t it?” Susan asked.

“You read my mind.”

“I don’t do that. But I will tell you that when my husband moved out of our house he left some of his things behind. Some old clothes, some books. I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of them.”

“When did you finally do it?” I asked.

“Never,” she said. “They’re still right there and probably always will be. That’s why I understand how that woman I mentioned felt about her son. And how you feel about this.”

“I don’t know if that’s encouraging or disturbing,” I said.

“Neither do I.”

I slipped the plastic bag into my coat pocket. “Well, since we’re telling each other all our dirty little secrets, I thought I could ask you one more thing.”

“Shoot.”

“You read the paper, right? And saw the story about the press conference where the police released the sketch? You know that I mentioned seeing something-someone-in the park where Caitlin disappeared.”

“The ghost,” she said, holding her hands up and making air quotes.

“What do you make of that?” I asked. “Is it possible? Did I see something. .?”